


Pigs Under the Mountain

by TheFreakWithTheWings



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Pigs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 06:10:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8878957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFreakWithTheWings/pseuds/TheFreakWithTheWings
Summary: Dáin escapes his duties for a few hours in order to visit the warpigs.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Poplitealqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poplitealqueen/gifts).



On days when the weight of the crown got too heavy, Dáin liked to sneak down to the pig pens to visit the warpigs. The pigs didn’t expect anything from him except wordless affection and food. It was refreshing, the simple honesty of animals.

It was also the last place most of his subjects expected to find the King Under the Mountain, which was an added bonus. If anything really important came up then Dís would be able to handle it until he was done, and probably better than he would. Some days Dáin wondered why she hadn’t taken the crown instead of him.

Today was not one of those days. The Jewelers Guild and the Goldsmith Guild had been on the brink of a blood feud today until Dáin had talked them down, and all he wanted to do now was slip away. He didn’t have anything other than some paperwork to sign for that poncy royal treeshagger, so none of his advisors would be too upset if he took a break. Besides, one of his favorite sows, Frigg, had just given birth a few weeks ago. She was a bloodthirsty beast, so he was hoping to raise one of her piglets to be his next mount. No one would blame him for taking a few hours off to see her, and if they did then they could answer to his fists.

The pig herders were so used to seeing him that they didn’t say anything when he arrived, just let him into Frigg’s stall.

Most of the piglets were sleeping; only one of them trotted over to investigate him. It had coarse black fur dotted with light brown spots, like its mother, and as soon as Dáin picked it up it started gnawing on his fingers.

“You’re a ferocious little squeaker, aren’t ya?” Dáin chuckled, carefully extracting his finger from the piglet’s mouth as he sat down near the rough-hewn stone fence. The evening’s dew began to seep into his trousers from the grass, but that was alright. Dáin always made sure to wear clothes that he could get dirty when he visited the warpigs, otherwise the tailors would be very upset. No one wanted to upset the tailors - the things they could do with needles were frightening.

The piglet wrinkled its nose at him and snorted.

“You’re going to grow up into a fierce warpig, little,” Dáin paused and turned the piglet over for a second, ignoring its - no, his indignant squeals. “Boy. You’ll probably eat orcs for breakfast, eh?”

The piglet squirmed free and ran back to his mother, pushing other piglets out of the way on his quest for safety. He certainly was an bossy little pig. The piglet reminded him of Little Thorin when he was toddler. Come to think of it, he also was a lot like Thorin Oakenshield too. Maybe he’d name it Thorin.

Frigg stirred briefly in order to roll over and glare at Dáin, her beady little eyes promising a slow, painful death if he disturbed any of her piglets again.

Dáin laughed. She was a mean old sow, but he knew she would never hurt him. Well, unless he got between her and her food, but then that was true of most dwarrow he knew as well.

There were actually a lot of similarities between pigs and dwarrow, if one thought about it. Both were fierce and hearty, able to keep fighting were a lesser being might have given up and died. Pigs were looked down upon and thought of as disgusting creatures, much like dwarrow were discriminated against by every other race in Middle-Earth. At least, they were until one needed their services. Then it was ‘Oh, what fine craftsmanship, Master Dwarf!’ or ‘That pig sure is good at finding mushrooms!’

Dáin sighed heavily. “You understand, don’t you Frigg?”

Frigg snorted in her sleep.

He pushed himself to his feet and walked over to scratch Frigg between her ears. The little piglet he had picked up earlier climbed over, his little hooves digging into Frigg’s side, and snuffled at his hand. Dáin switched over to petting the piglet, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Excuse me, sire,” one of the pig herders - Borl, if he remembered correctly - said. “But it’s feeding time now.”

“Right you are, lad,” Dáin said as he let himself out of Frigg’s pen. “Have you named any of the squeakers yet?”

Borl filled up the trough with slop. “Not yet, sire. Did ya have any in mind?”

“The little black and brown one reminds me of Thorin, just a bit,” Dáin said.

Borl’s eyes widened. “I’m not so sure the prince would like that very much, sire.”

Dáin shook some dirt off his iron leg and laughed. “Aye, but he’ll have plenty of time to get revenge.”

“If you say so, sire,” Borl said dubiously.

“Maybe I’ll give him to Little Thorin for his next birthday,” Dáin said. His son’s reaction would be hilarious and definitely worth whatever retribution Little Thorin could come up with. “We’ll keep this between us, aye?”

“Aye, sire,” Borl said, nodding easily. “He won’t hear a thing from me.”

“Good lad.” Dáin clapped him on the shoulder before he headed back to his quarters, feeling much better for his visit to the warpigs. Maybe he could give one of the runts to that prissy leaf-eater the next time the elf visited, all in the name of diplomacy of course. Dís would only lightly maim him for that stunt.


End file.
